1
I’M ROTTEN TO THE CORE—me, Eddie Crowe. Self-awareness is good. It’s the pathway to enlightenment. I learned that from Dr. Stundel. I can see his perfect white teeth from where I’m sitting. I think they’re porcelain veneers. I do. No one is that perfect.
He’s hovering above that lady with the red freckles and the raccoon eyes. Are her lips really that big or was she punched in the face? She’s adjusting her bra. I think I just saw her areola. I’m beginning to suspect she’s a prostitute.
I wish Dr. Stundel would stop looking at me with that smile—as if he were mocking me in my present predicament. I know it’s just some poster of him on the wall above Red Freckles, but still. Like, in some predetermined way, he knew I was going to end up here all along. Hello, haven’t you learned anything? It’s all predetermined.
How’d I get here?
What’s that poster say? I should know it by heart—I’ve only seen it a million times. “School Safety and Crisis Preparedness: We’re Here to Make a Difference.” I wonder if those teenagers with Stundel are real people or hired models? They kind of appear insidiously subversive—like potential sociopaths. Hopefully, Dr. Stundel looked into that. I bet he did. Before they took the photo, I’m sure he totally made them take the test. You can never be too careful.
How the hell did I get here?
Before all this sleet of shit came down on me. Back when I was just a normal, average sixteen-year-old with normal, everyday problems: mind-numbing boredom; nocturnal emissions—not as enjoyable as one might think; puss-head zits; the depression of not fitting in; the god-awful despair of feeling inadequate; and my clock-is-ticking timebomb reminder of my virginity—wondering if I’m going to die not knowing what it feels like to be with a girl. The prostitute with red freckles—wonder if she’s ever been charged with solicitation of a minor? What’s the matter with me! How can I be thinking about sex at a moment like this? Shit, I believe I’m being bad again.
I’m crawling in my skin. My stomach is squirming, and I feel like I have battery acid pooling in my gut. I’m exhausted. I just want to sleep—or wake up if this is a bad dream.
Where was I going with this?
How I got here. Right. Stuck in the police station.
There was a time when I wasn’t “homicidal.” Not that I considered myself perfect—I’m not saying I was. I did “bad” things—ethically ambiguous things. There’s Simon—he wasn’t an angel either. He’s my—was my—best friend, and I’m not going to rat him out, but c’mon. Like that one time we used his brother’s pellet gun to shoot at passing cars––that was his idea. At least I didn’t fire at the vehicles clearly marked as fuel-efficient hybrids or those with the rear-window decals depicting those cheesy stick-figure family members—at least I used discretion.
I’m doing it again. I violated one of Stundel’s tenets: I’m not accepting responsibility. I’m rotten to the core. I’m bad, and you know how I know this? Because thanks to Stundel’s program, I now realize what I did in the past was wrong. Like, all those video games I would five-finger discount from retail stores—get past security sensors undetected. Or cheating on tests—but I’m not sure if we can include that since, as they say, I was only cheating myself. Sounds like another excuse, Crowe. Rotten to the core.
And then there were the pranks—like the hand-blower smoke bomb in the boy’s room, second floor by the stairwell. Ingredients: smoke bomb, double-sided adhesive tape, and hand blower. Wire in the hand blower heats up and ignites the fuse. There you have it. No one has to find out you did it—unless your accomplice brags about it, gets caught, and snitches. Thanks, Mike Venicci.
Almost got into big trouble for that one. My parents even got called into Principal Woodruff’s office and all the brouhaha that goes with that. But while some people wear their badness like a badge of honor, I wore mine like a cloak of invisibility. I was imperceptible to the naked eye. So much so, I only got a day of detention; a little apologizing can go a long way if performed convincingly and, most importantly, by someone as innocent looking as I am. I guess you could say I was a liar, and at times selfish, and, I’m sad to say, maybe even a little cruel—but as long as it was in the dark, and no one knew about it, I believed I wasn’t doing any harm.
“Contrition only counts if it’s sincere.” Angela’s words echo in my head. I hope she’s okay. What if I never see her again? What have you done, Eddie? You’ve totally lost it, haven’t you?
That cop just looked at me. He’s coming my way. This can’t be good.
Mom, what did I do? I screwed up the rest of my life, didn’t I? I’m done for. Finished. My eyes are welling up, and this time it’s for real.
⌃ ⌥ ⌦
For Eddie, the day of the school shooting began as an ordinary weekday. A Monday following a weekend with no notable highlights. Although the bright morning sun suggested the possibility of a good day, Eddie found it just another dreary start to a school week.
Eddie had been running late, which was typical. At any moment his best friend, Simon Fricker, would be pressing on the car horn, because Simon’s mom was with him, and she was often running late, too. That morning, Eddie had overslept, fooling himself into believing that in the comforts of slumber he could extend his weekend a few more minutes.
In the kitchen, Eddie’s parents, Charlotte and Sam, had already started their day. Charlotte poured Sam a cup of coffee. “I think the half-and-half might be spoiled,” she warned.
“What do you mean, you think?” Sam asked. “Does it taste spoiled?”
“It’s clumpy—you want it?”
“Forget it. I’ll drink it black,” Sam murmured.
The organic creamer Charlotte always bought had a short shelf life. Before the expiration date, it would get clumpy, in the beginning stages of becoming spoiled. He didn’t understand why she insisted on buying something supposedly better for you if it was more expensive and didn’t last as long as normal creamer. Charlotte wasn’t a health nut, but she was easily influenced by the current wave of warnings as to how one should eat: beware of GMOs and stay away from gluten. When Sam had been Eddie’s age, none of this stuff mattered. But now everything you ate or drank could kill you.
Eddie, with his hair still wet, rushed into the kitchen. He grabbed a banana and said, “Gotta go.”
“Wait a minute, mister.” Sam glowered at Eddie. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Um . . . no.”
“You sure?”
By the look on his father’s face, Eddie suspected he’d possibly discovered one recent infraction: the underwear-loaded-with-dog-shit prank a parent may have captured on video. First rule of being interrogated: feign ignorance. Second rule when the first doesn’t work: deny deny deny.
“I don’t know,” replied Eddie.
“I asked you to set the DVR to record bowling on ESPN. What happened?”
Honk. There it was—Ms. Fricker’s car horn. It was his clarion call to escape.
“I made a big mistake. It’s indefensible, and I’m sorry,” Eddie said with a frown. “Really, I gotta—bye.” Eddie bolted for the door.
“You need to be more responsible, young man!” Sam called out. In response, the door slammed shut.
“I don’t ask much of that kid—less than my father did of me. And yet, he’s more lazy, unmotivated, and irresponsible than I ever was.” Sam sighed with resignation.
“He said he was sorry,” Charlotte uttered with a shrug as she sipped her coffee.
“Yeah, he’s gotten good at saying that.” Sam responded while pouring the remainder of his coffee down the sink. He huffed, kissed Charlotte goodbye, and slumped his shoulders, exiting the kitchen on his way to work.
With Sam gone, Charlotte’s attention drifted to the television set on the kitchen counter: Christine Haber, the Top of the Morning host for Satellite News Network, was interviewing someone with impressively white teeth. He’s not a bad-looking guy, Charlotte thought. He exuded intelligence, charm, and confidence, and he had a politician’s gleam of power—senatorial or even presidential. She turned up the volume.
Christine Haber spoke with an icy chill: “I’m speaking with Dr. Damon Stundel, professor emeritus of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University, who is the author of the bestseller Trigger Finger, USA: The Psychosis of Violence in America. According to an article you wrote for The American Journal of Psychiatry, you completed a study on the teenage brain’s propensity for violence—”
The phone rang. Charlotte muted the television. It was her friend Meredith calling to see if Charlotte was interested in joining her in multilevel marketing acai-berry chocolates—a product touting truly astounding health benefits. Because Charlotte had known Meredith for years, she was open to hearing her pitch.
*
The drive to school was relatively short. Eddie could’ve easily walked to and from Clintock High School in twelve minutes, but ever since Simon had gotten his learner’s permit, the trek now seemed laborious. Eddie had a learner’s permit, too, but his mother would invariably need the family Subaru Roadster to run daily errands or do volunteer work for the local parish—meaning Eddie had to walk, ride his bike, or bum a car ride.
Not that Simon’s car situation was that much better. The only time he was allowed to use his mother’s hatchback was to drive to school, and always with her as a passenger. When Robin, Simon’s mom, wasn’t henpecking him about his driving, she was chiding him over something he’d done wrong: chores not completed, homework not finished, attitude not kept in check. The conversation between the two would get so loud, Eddie occasionally wondered if walking would’ve been better.
“You didn’t come to a full stop,” Robin said.
“Well, I’m only modeling my behavior after you,” Simon said.
“I’m a good driver. Take that back.”
“When you’re not drunk behind the wheel, you’re decent at best.”
She squinted. “You’re a disrespectful little shit. Pull over. I’m driving.”
“Fuck, Mom. I was just kidding.”
“Language! I can’t believe you talk to me like this in front of your friend.” Robin turned to Eddie. “I’m sure he told you about what happened last Friday. I was barely buzzed.”
Simon belched and said, “My mom’s an alcoholic.”
“Shut the hell up and pull over!” Robin cried.
“Mom! I’m just talking shit. Calm down.”
Eddie cringed with repulsion at the sudden overwhelming smell of Simon’s burp. “What did you eat? That reeked.”
Simon laughed. “Pepperoni Hot Pocket.”
Eddie and Simon had been friends as far back as seventh grade. That was the year Robin Fricker had moved her two sons, Simon and his older brother, Scottie, from the more affluent, less ethnically diverse Brunswick School District to the neighboring Clintock School District. The family of three had settled into a three-bedroom, two-bath condo as Robin went through a messy divorce from the boys’ father, Kevin Fricker, an orthodontist.
The first time Eddie had seen Simon was the morning bus ride the first day of seventh grade. Scottie—a year older than Simon—had been torturing him by repeatedly pushing his head up against the window. Eddie had next encountered Simon later that day in gym class. Mr. Casey, the boys’ PE teacher, had been mocking Simon’s double chin and muffin-top waistline in front of a receptive tween audience. Amid the humiliating laughter, Simon had raised his shirt, exposing his very white belly, which he had jiggled tauntingly at Mr. Casey. It’d left a lasting impression on Eddie, who marveled at Simon’s ability to lean into the mockery with remarkable resilience.
Later that day, during lunch period, Eddie had introduced himself to Simon. That afternoon, they’d sent crank messages to Mr. Casey, posing as an underage trollop looking to engage in Nabokovian sexting. Mr. Casey hadn’t taken their bait, but it had made for a good laugh, which had sealed their friendship.
Simon burped again. This time it was forced—an attention-seeker to rattle his mom and make Eddie laugh.
“That’s it. Starting tomorrow you’re walking to school with your brother,” Robin said.
Simon realized he’d taken it too far. Being forced to spend “quality” time with his brother was always the threat Robin used as a trump card to finally get what she wanted.
“Sorry, Mom. I promise I’ll behave.”
Eddie rolled down the window to let some fresh air into the car.
Angela Gallardo was at a crosswalk. She was smoking a cigarette and had a zombie-baby bag slung over her shoulder. She was listening to music with a cheap headset, the kind tethered by a serpentine wire to a cellphone. The pedestrian light flashed, inviting her to walk. She crossed.
Angela was in Eddie’s English Literature class. Eddie had only ever seen her talk to teachers and Principal Woodruff, and he’d only ever seen her smile once while glancing at him. It was brief and inviting and it stuck with him likely because it occurred with the same frequency as a total solar eclipse. He’d wondered why she was smiling. Was it a joke to which only she knew the punch line? Or was it a ciphered communiqué meant for Eddie, as if to say, I don’t belong here, and you don’t either.
Eddie fixated on Angela, wondering if she’d look his way, then glanced at himself in the passenger-side mirror. He hated the size of his ears and how his hair was a frizzy, unruly shag.
The car rolled by, passing Angela. She continued walking, her eyes trained on Clintock High. She moved like a flat-racing thoroughbred intent on crossing the finish line, oblivious to those in her periphery.
“River Troll alert,” announced Simon. “What the hell is she wearing?” Simon gagged.
Eddie smiled, pretending to be amused. He used to feel the same way—the way almost every other schoolmate at Clintock High felt—with regard to Angela. She wore socks that didn’t match, Chuck T’s mottled with what looked like house paint, sleeves frayed on one side. Her hair was unevenly cut—either self-inflicted or by a sight-deprived landscaper with dull hedge shears. Eddie thought her rebelliousness was growing by the day. She should’ve been a perfect match for the skate punks at Clintock High. They were the school’s social anarchists. But they steered clear of her, as if her eccentricities were even too bold for them to absorb. Angela kept solely to herself. Eddie guessed Angela wanted to be left alone because she was out of touch with the entire world.
Angela intrigued Eddie. He wondered if his fascination with her was an indication of some deeper attraction. He was certain he didn’t have the guts to publicly crush on her—that would only expose him to embarrassing ridicule. She existed in a netherworld populated by social misfits: a sad and desperate region that reminded you daily how worthless you were to everyone else. Eddie always felt that as much as he didn’t fit in, he was at least spared that great misfortune.
“Why’d you call that girl a River Troll?” Robin asked.
“It’s just a name that she’s called,” Eddie said.
Simon muttered, “Eddie made it up.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“You were the first person I ever heard say it.”
“I got it from somebody else.” Eddie gazed back at Angela getting smaller in the passenger-side mirror. He rolled up the window.
*
Many at Clintock High considered Elijah Pearl the resident Antichrist: he was a bully, a truant, a glue-sniffing drug addict, a vandal, an extortionist, and, on one occasion, a flasher. He was also Scottie Fricker’s best friend.
The two were lounging beside the statue of Cassius Merriweather at Clintock High’s south entrance. They had ten minutes until the morning bell sounded—a bell they’d in all likelihood ignore.
“Oh man, I’d so hit that hard,” said Pearl, who preferred being called by his last name. He’d pointed to Lisa Azai in the distance. Lisa, a member of the Student Body Events Committee, desperately camouflaged her large breasts to avoid this sort of unwanted attention.
Scottie sneered. “Dude, she looks like a dude.”
“Dude-ish, but not a dude, you fag.” Pearl frowned, rubbing his red, inflamed nose. He noticed Robin’s hatchback sputtering to a stop near the parking lot’s entrance, beyond the arriving caravan of school buses.
“Hey, Scottie, you ever seen your mom naked?” Pearl asked while leering at Robin, who’d emerged from the backseat.
“No, but I seen yours last night.”
Pearl, defending his mother’s honor, kicked Scottie’s calf muscle.
*
Robin settled into the driver’s seat and reminded Simon to “keep an eye out for trouble.” Trouble was her code word for Scottie.
Simon sighed. He was saddled with making sure Scottie—his older brother—stayed free and clear of any wrongdoing.
As Robin drove away, Simon muttered, “I’m tired of keeping an eye out for that a-hole. Sometimes I just wish he’d drop dead.”
“Why don’t you kill him while he’s sleeping?” asked Eddie matter-of-factly.
“He’s a light sleeper; I wouldn’t make it past the foot of his bed.”
“Good point. Stealth, you’re not.”
“But if life were an RPG, I’d take him out with sniper fire, for sure.”
“Of course. Without question,” bemoaned Eddie as if disappointed by Simon’s inability to rid society of at least one of the villainous pair.
As they stepped off the parking lot’s blacktop onto the tattered grass, Simon said, “You should do it for me. A real friend would.”
“Shut up,” Eddie said with a chortle.
“You’d get away with it, too. You get away with everything.”
“Only the small stuff.”
“If I were to pay, let’s just say. How much would it cost?”
“To kill your brother?”
“Make him disappear.”
Eddie frowned with confusion. “What’s the difference?”
“A dead body, that’s the difference. I wouldn’t want my mom to see him dead.”
“What a caring son you are.”
“I try.”
“I’m not a magician, so I can’t just make him disappear.”
Simon nodded in agreement, then blurted, “You can dump him in the middle of a lake.”
“I don’t own a boat.”
Simon gave it some thought, then added, “Bury him in the woods.”
“I think your mom would notice him gone. The not knowing what happened to him is just as bad as seeing him dead, don’t you think?”
With dismay, Simon replied, “I suppose you’re right.”
Although they occasionally spoke as if their absurd hypotheticals were real, this hitman playacting was new and unfamiliar. Simon wondered if this was how most murder-for-hire plots were first hatched—in breezy, offhanded conversations that began harmlessly before spiraling into the deranged. Simon also wondered if his brother, Scottie, ever traded homicidal thoughts with his best bud, Pearl. Actually, Simon felt certain they did.
Instead of letting the subject die, Eddie said, “It would have to look like an accident. Sudden. Big explosion.”
“Would he feel any pain?”
“The kind of explosion I’m imagining, probably not.”
“He’s put me through a lot. I’d like for it to be at least a little painful.”
“If you don’t want a body, that’s the best way to do it. Total incineration. It wouldn’t be hard. You patch together a makeshift explosive with garden-variety compost. You could easily swipe it from the school landscape crew.”
“You mean Hector? He always leaves his truck unattended.”
“Exactly. To trigger it, you can use one of those prepaid cell phones or connect it to the ignition line of Pearl’s truck—”
Simon’s mood brightened. “Take Pearl out, too. Good thinking.”
Eddie slowed and then stopped. His face turned sullen. “You asked me how much it would cost. If you really want to do this, I need to know for sure how much you’re willing to pay.”
Simon smiled and then chuckled. He looked to Eddie expecting to see the same.
Eddie wasn’t smiling. He looked annoyed, as if he were being toyed with. “I’m not doing this for free.”
Simon squinted at Eddie. He wondered when Eddie would crack a smile or at least hint at one. He didn’t. Instead, his lips faintly twitched—the nervous spasm of someone capable of doing the unthinkable.
Simon gazed unnerved, whispering, “I was just bullshitting. Are you for real?”
Eddie scowled for what seemed like an eternity. His expression gave way to a broad taut smile. “Got you.” Eddie continued walking with a triumphant spry step.
Simon caught up and shoved Eddie. “You’re such a dick. And, no, I didn’t buy it.”
Eddie and Simon came up to the Cassius Merriweather statue, witnessing yet again the Pearl–Scottie tag team of villainy: the two had cornered defenseless Clyde Mason, who was suffering dearly.
*
Clyde Mason was the whipping boy of Clintock High. Every school has one: the student who, for one reason or another, becomes a punching bag, absorbing his peers’ blows. Peers who themselves were fraught with pent-up frustration, resentment, and revulsion. Clyde was socially inept, had objectionable body odor, and was greasy like a sea otter; he resembled one, too. He didn’t even have intelligence to fall back on. If he were smart, he did an exceptionally good job at hiding it, which unto itself wasn’t smart.
Some resisted the urge to smear mud on his face. They remained silent, and at one time or another, they reached out to him as a gesture of goodwill. Eddie had once been a member of this dwindling tribe. But Clyde wasn’t easy to get along with: like a feral street dog, he’d often provoke his own abuse by snapping at those who got too close; consequently, he’d worsen his own torment.
Clyde’s older sister had dropped him off that morning. He’d purposely had her stop along the cluster of spruce trees near the newly constructed baseball field. It wasn’t too far from school but far enough for his arrival to go unnoticed. He’d stood there for several minutes with his duffel bag packed with gym clothes, books, and an assortment of junk. The bag felt heavier today, he’d thought as he kicked the spruce cones by the chain-link fence surrounding the school’s perimeter.
This was usually the best point of entrance for him—and the most secure in that it limited his exposure to students congregating at the school’s various doorways. He’d climb over the fence, cross the track field, and enter through the service doors that entered into the cafeteria. One door was always ajar for daily deliveries and the janitorial crew.
This morning, however, the door was closed. Clyde had attempted to pry it open, but it hadn’t budged. His skin had tingled. His inner thighs had turned clammy and wet with perspiration. He’d gotten so used to entering this way it had become a reliable comfort. The south entrance had to be his next choice—not too many people entered there. He’d taken a moment to collect his thoughts and stop his hands from shaking.
He’d squeezed through two adjoining boxwood hedges, and he’d hastened up the lawn past the Merriweather statue. That’s when he’d heard Pearl’s catcall whistle from behind the statue. Pearl and Scottie had materialized beside Clyde, two looming giants with menacing grins. Clyde had frozen like a camper happening upon a den of rattlers. At least rattlers provided a warning to those who approached them.
*
“Hi, Clyde. What’s the hurry?” Pearl said.
Clyde tried to walk past Pearl. Scottie blocked his path. “He’s talkin’ to you. You’re a rude one, aren’t you?”
Pearl pouted and said, “I’m offended.”
“As you should be,” added Scottie.
Clyde saw Shelly Cantrell, Eaglet cheerleader, and Carl Motts, varsity captain of the Clintock Eagles football team, walk toward the entrance. Shelly, true to form, ignored all things objectionable, pretending not to see Clyde being victimized. Carl—who was never opposed to witnessing dehumanization—chose to wink at him and nothing more.
Clyde whimpered. “I don’t have any money, okay.”
Scottie got right up in Clyde’s face. “Are you calling us thieves?”
Pearl scrutinized Clyde. “Look at him. He’s sweating.”
“He could probably use a headband,” Scottie said, nudging Pearl.
Pearl grinned as if he and Scottie were a comic duo about to launch into a rehearsed routine. Pearl motioned to his slack-jawed assistant, Scottie, who pulled Clyde’s duffle bag off and flung it to the ground. It thudded against the concrete walkway. Pearl then reached into Clyde’s pants while Scottie held Clyde still. Clyde struggled, trying to push them off.
Pearl tightly gripped onto the elastic waistband of Clyde’s underwear and pulled up, administering an atomic wedgie. It took a few vigorous tugs until the seam gave way.
Clyde, looking like his assailants’ venom had dulled his senses, peered off, waiting for the moment to end. Pearl tore the remainder of the elastic waistband off and pulled it up over Clyde’s torso. He tied it around Clyde’s forehead, marveling at the artistry of his creation.
“That’s awesome,” Scottie said with eye-bulging enthusiasm.
“The trick is to pull like you’re starting a lawnmower.”
“Right, yeah. I see what you mean.”
Pearl dismissed Clyde. “Bye-bye.”
Clyde gathered his duffle bag and, without looking back or giving them any more cause to continue, scurried into the building.
Eddie and Simon, having seen most of what had happened, coasted up the walkway. Simon sighed, followed by a sad-stricken shrug.
“You have to give this torture shit a rest. Mom’s up my ass about you.”
“So?” Scottie spat near Simon’s feet.
“If you get in trouble again—you know what? I don’t care,” Simon said. “But Mom wants you to be human and not some pitchfork-carrying loser.”
Scottie stomped up to Simon, shoving him into the grass. He gnashed his teeth as his neck tendons rippled like corrugated steel. He resembled an adrenaline-gorged Marine trying to intimidate a local at a dive bar.
“I will tear your fat head off and drop-kick it into the dumpster!” Scottie roared with spit exploding from his mouth.
“Calm down, asshole,” uttered Simon as if following a familiar script the two brothers shared.
“I’m going to kill you if you don’t shut up right now!” Scottie hissed.
Pearl cackled with laughter, which seemed to further spur on Scottie’s performance.
Scottie glowered at Simon and hollered, “Now pick your fat ass up, and get outta here!”
Simon was back on his feet and hoofing it to the door. Pearl noticed Eddie, hands in his pockets, watching him. Eddie squinted, his gaze displaying an icy defiance.
“What are you looking at, shithead?” Pearl said as his hands balled into fists. “You mad doggin’ me?”
Eddie slumped. A flash of heat prickled the flesh on his back. Fight-or-flight had kicked in, and before he’d realized it, he was moving toward Simon, who was standing at the door.
That was when Eddie felt a sudden jolt to his back—like a cinder block striking him. He staggered forward, losing his balance, and landed on his knees. There was a sharp pain in his buttocks and a force that propelled him forward—most likely Pearl kicking him. He felt his palm scrape across the walkway’s gritty surface. Laughter reverberated in the back of his mind, and the laughter wasn’t his.
Time unraveled slowly and then sped back up, and Eddie was again on his feet. He turned to look at Pearl and Scottie, who were clutching their sides with laughter. The dull throb of pain on Eddie’s back and rear end screamed out to him. Not now, he thought. He’d feel pain later, but not in front of them.
“Eddie, c’mon,” Simon said, triggering Eddie’s feet to move forward. He followed Simon into the building. As the door closed behind Eddie, Pearl fired a parting shot: “Crowe, you’re a faggot.”
*
Although the throbbing discomfort had dissipated by second period, the scabbed abrasion on Eddie’s palm was a stinging reminder of what had happened earlier. There was also his bruised pride to consider. He was growing more angry as the morning progressed, which was at odds with how he’d felt just after the incident.
Initially, he’d been scared—his nerves had been hopped up on pure adrenaline. He’d replayed the encounter, ruminating on how he could’ve avoided it: had he and Simon used the main entrance, he probably wouldn’t have seen Pearl and Scottie the entire day.
While sitting in Math class listening to Mrs. Elsworth drone on about Euclidean Plane Geometry, Eddie thought about the assault—imagining the incident from a different vantage point, as if he were a voyeur witnessing Pearl strike him. Pearl’s rubber lips stretched from ear to ear, smiling with perverse pleasure while punching Eddie’s back. Was it even a punch? Eddie wasn’t sure, but for dramatic purposes he allowed that it was.
Before Eddie knew it, first-period Math was over. He was barely aware of walking to Mr. Sherman’s biology class. Students passed him in the hallway, their faces streaking by like a smeared motion-blurred image on a photograph. His memory of the event played on a continuous loop. And an unsettled feeling stirred deep inside his chest.
While Mr. Sherman was lecturing about energy-synthesizing mitochondria, Eddie gazed at the dappled sunlight blanketing the courtyard. He wondered if other students had witnessed his encounter with Pearl and Scottie. He’d never gotten into a real fight—minor scuffles at the most. He’d always imagined that if push came to shove he’d be able to defend himself. Now he wondered if he’d been a coward for scurrying away. Pearl’s words—Crowe, you’re a faggot—flaked off the brittle shell of his confidence. He was not questioning his sexual orientation, but something more profound: his manhood. Would he need therapy when he was in his thirties? Or overcompensate by picking fights or aspire to be an overzealous police officer? As far as he knew, he didn’t want to be a cop, but if some soothsayer were to assure him he’d have the opportunity to shoot Pearl during a convenience store holdup, Eddie would seriously consider it.
By the time Mr. Sherman’s class had ended, Eddie began imagining an alternate ending. In it, he anticipated Pearl’s blow and evaded it. He swung around and his fist connected with Pearl’s face, dismantling Pearl’s shit-eating grin. Now on his knees, Pearl howled like a birthday brat kicked off an arcade game at Chuck E. Cheese. Scottie attempted to get into the fray. But Eddie did a preemptive move—possibly a kick to the nuts. Or, better yet, an elbow strike to Scottie’s nose that dropped him.
Eddie was now in the boys’ room washing his hands. His pink scab dissolved in the liquid soap and water. Eddie wouldn’t be able to rewrite history, but maybe it was better that way: messing with the space-time continuum usually resulted in a Pandora’s box being opened.
Eddie focused on the back of Billy Loughlin’s head. Billy was minding his own business, using the urinal. Eddie thought how he could slink up to Billy and punch the back of his head. Not that Eddie had issues with Billy, but if Pearl had been standing there instead, doing this would’ve been pretty easy as well as satisfying.
As Eddie walked to Mr. Edwards’s English lit class, he could feel his excitement surging as he imagined Pearl’s comeuppance. It made him feel valiant, as if he were avenging himself and all those Pearl tormented.
As Mr. Edwards went on about Holden Caulfield’s mixed homosexual signals in Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, Eddie was imagining a digital environment much like the simulated world in a video game. In it, he blasted Pearl with a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun. He engaged in a surgically precise piecemeal removal of Pearl’s extremities until nothing was left but a talking torso.
Eddie whispered to Simon, who sat at the desk next to his: “Hey, about what I said before? Maybe I wasn’t kidding.”
Simon, staring slack-jawed at Angela’s back, turned to Eddie. “Huh?” he murmured.
“How do you stand living with your asshole brother?”
“Easy, I just cry myself to sleep.”
Simon pointed to Angela’s lower back, which was exposed. They could see part of a tattoo. Simon smirked. “Look, it’s a tattoo of JRR Tolkien giving birth to the River Troll from his asshole.”
*
Hearing “River Troll” sounded off an all-points bulletin in Angela: it usually sent her into an emotional lockdown. Ordinarily, she’d pretend not to hear comments like that, but she’d glanced in Eddie’s direction and caught him looking at her. His eyes darted away. She assumed the slight came from him, and she felt such disappointment.
She didn’t know Eddie, but she’d sensed in him a familiar social detachment: his slumped posture, his hands stuffed inside his pockets, his unease with drawing attention his way. Eddie seemed in lockstep with the majority of the students at Clintock High; however, his cadence was a little off—not quite marching to the unifying drumbeat. Angela suspected he felt as she did: inadequate and lonely and misunderstood. On numerous occasions she’d noticed him looking at her with studious curiosity and trepidation. She’d wondered if Eddie would eventually initiate an overture of friendship. Just now she felt betrayed. She imagined reaching into her zombie-baby bag, pulling out a Prussian helmet, and rocketing herself through the ceiling into a utopian locale—a golf course in Northern California. Angela didn’t play golf, but she certainly appreciated the tranquil appeal of golf courses.
“Ms. Gallardo, do you think Holden was projecting his fear of being a homosexual onto Mr. Andolini?” Mr. Edwards asked her.
Angela noticed Eddie looking her way. She pursed her lips, which was her usual telltale sign of expressing a general annoyance with the surrounding world. “I think it was Salinger projecting his love for whiny, immature boys who think they’re smart when all they do is say stupid things.”
Carl said, “Lesbian,” disguising it with a cough. Laughter followed.
“Settle down. Sexual orientation is not to be used as an insult in my classroom,” Mr. Edwards said. “Ms. Gallardo is expressing her perspective. I’m trying to get you guys to look at subjects from various viewpoints. For all we know Holden may have been struggling with his sexual identity. Arguing there’s a simple answer here would be specious.”
Kelly Vaccaro held her hand up, asking for the definition of specious.
“SAT word folks. It means misleading. It also means deceptive. Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Sure, they may seem to make sense, but beneath the surface is a truth that contradicts what we see—that goes for people’s intentions, behavior, or political agendas.”
The class bell rang. Angela avoided looking in Eddie’s direction and wasted no time leaving the classroom before Mr. Edwards completed his point.
*
While entering the boys’ room, Eddie nearly bumped into Neal Parsinski. The way Neal bustled out made Eddie think some ungodly smell had been unleashed. Eddie held his breath, anticipating the worst. Instead, he was met with a more unsettling offense: Clyde Mason was being coerced into licking the rim of a urinal. Scottie held Clyde’s head, which was flushed red with eye-bulging restraint. Pearl was sniffing glue as he leaned against the sink. Oddly, Pearl was barely paying attention to Clyde’s torment, as if he’d already grown bored with it.
Eddie pressed his back against the door. His chest constricted as if in a vice. He held steady as Pearl glanced at him. A brief, dopey look that could be categorized as dull bordering on ambivalence. Eddie wondered if Pearl had forgotten about what had happened that morning. Had their encounter been so insignificant, Pearl considered it as ho-hum as brushing his teeth or tying his shoelaces?
“Take a shit somewhere else, Crowe,” Pearl said.
Eddie’s legs locked. A mushroom cloud of rage ascended from the pit of his stomach. But his fear had overwhelmed him again. Pearl was bigger and stronger than he was, and he’d also have to contend with Scottie.
Eddie turned to walk out, muttering under his breath, “You’re a couple of shit-for-brain dickheads.”
Pearl replied, “What did you say?”
The two stared at each other. All the while, Eddie’s lips quivered.
*
A crowd of spectators had formed, although Eddie couldn’t really see them—he was too busy covering his head to evade Pearl’s flailing punches.
The fight had swiftly moved into the hallway. It wasn’t much of a fight, a far cry from how Eddie had hoped it would turn out. He’d delivered one errant punch—a glancing blow to the back of Pearl’s head. It had little impact, if any. Before Eddie could process it, Pearl had rush-tackled him out of the bathroom and onto the hallway floor.
Eddie could taste the blood seeping into his mouth. His nose pulsated and felt like it was on fire. Scottie roared, “Kick his ass!” Another one of Pearl’s punches got past Eddie’s forearm, connecting with his right nostril. On the tile floor, droplets of blood smeared into swirls.
Mr. Edwards’s voice boomed. “Hey!” Other voices—authoritarian voices—shouted for those in the way to move. Pearl landed one last punctuated blow to Eddie’s ear before being hoisted off him. Eddie pressed his palm against his head, hoping to muffle the intense ringing racking his eardrum.
*
It had been over an hour and the ice pack was still pretty cold: it was a liquid pack that plunged to arctic temperatures through some mysterious chemical reaction. Eddie had gotten the ice pack from Mrs. Melendez, the school nurse who spoke with an exotic South American accent.
Eddie was sitting in the administration office’s waiting room. The bleeding from his nose had stopped (ah sooperfeecial injoury, Mrs. Melendez had called it). The ice pack had kept the swelling down. Eddie’s ear felt puffy and tender; as for the ringing, it was all but gone.
While Eddie sat waiting for what his withering patience perceived as an eternity, he could hear Mr. Loraska, sitting by the door leading to the hallway, breathing heavily. Loraska was the school’s lone security guard. He was seriously overweight and had a proclivity for Sudoku, which he was now enjoying.
Eddie could also see Ms. Phelps occasionally glance at him from her office. Her door was open, and she appeared to be on her lunch break. She was munching on carrot sticks while reading a hardcover book. Eddie couldn’t make out the title, but the author’s name was in bold print on the spine: Dr. Damon Stundel.
Elaine Phelps was the assistant principal of Clintock High. The word around the school was that she took her job very seriously, either to prove something to herself or because she had an indefatigable desire to ascend to the rank of school principal.
She darted reproaching glances at Eddie while turning the pages of her book. By the looks she gave, Eddie surmised she’d heard about the fight and, seemingly, had formed her own opinion as to what had happened. She might presume he was the instigator. Pearl was often—rightfully—considered the instigator of these fights. Nevertheless, Eddie wondered if Ms. Phelps’s mind worked differently: she was cold and aloof, as if she were a robot or a Vulcan who frowned on supposition and preferred empirical data from which to draw her own conclusions.
The door to Principal Woodruff’s office finally opened. Woodruff—typically a smiling, genial man—looked stern. He motioned for Pearl to step out of his office. Pearl tipped his chin up in a final act of defiance. Avoiding eye contact, he strutted past Eddie and into the hallway. That’s when Loraska, without skipping a beat, snapped his fingers for Pearl to stop his departure and pointed at him to take a seat, which he did.
*
Robert Woodruff had been the principal of Whippoorwill Elementary School when Eddie had been enrolled there. Whippoorwill was one of three elementary schools in the Clintock School District; it was also located near the old, erstwhile Tapert, landfill. When health officials had discovered the chromium levels in the water table near the school were slightly above the EPA standard of 0.1 parts per million, the parents had become uniformly alarmed. Suddenly, skin irritations had begun to appear on some students, and one faculty member had been diagnosed with liver disease. Despite the liver disease being attributed to the teacher’s excessive drinking, and the irritations looking more like exposure to poison ivy, the parents had demanded action—they’d wanted Whippoorwill closed. And that had been after health officials had determined the water the Clintock water-treatment facility piped into the school had tested free of chromium contamination.
The Parents Council had organized a petition to pressure the board of education members to take an active stand, and the members had voted unanimously to close Whippoorwill Elementary forever. Two other elementary schools had absorbed its student body, as well as most of the faculty. As for Woodruff, he’d been relieved of his position as principal and offered a staff position with the Clintock City Council of Human Services and Education Committee, which he’d begrudgingly accepted. Woodruff felt he was the only casualty from Whippoorwill closing. He’d slipped into a mild depression. These had been the Dark Days of Robert Woodruff, as he called it: he and his wife, Olivia, had separated during this period, and his shingles had resurfaced, which caused optic nerve palsy—a painful condition that contributed to many sleepless nights.
Then things had started to take a turn for the better: Woodruff had reconciled with his wife, his shingles had abated, and he’d been offered the position of principal at Clintock High School after Sebastian Rafferty, the residing principal, had died of a massive heart attack. Woodruff, as he saw it, had weathered the storm of discontent with grace and poise. He was well liked, especially by the school superintendent, Richard Collins, who’d actively pursued Woodruff to accept the position. Moreover, Woodruff believed his likability had contributed to his fortunes being on the upswing. He could’ve made a big stink about how unfair losing his job was over collateral fallout from the chromium fiasco, but he hadn’t. He’d bided his time, rolled with the punches, and decided not to make waves. He considered himself a good man: fair and open-minded, possessing the traits of an exceptional leader. These traits had set Cassius Merriweather—the pilgrim, frontiersman, and founder of Clintock Township—apart from his contemporaries. And so Woodruff made a conscious effort to uphold them within himself and within others, which included Clintock High students.
Woodruff, sitting at his desk, looked across at Eddie. He’d always liked the boy. But right now he had to set aside his feelings and get to the heart of the matter. Woodruff crossed his arms judiciously. “Alright, what’s your side of the story?”
“Well, I walked into the bathroom, and Pearl and Scottie were picking on Clyde—”
“And you came to his defense.”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“Elijah said you started the fight—that you threw the first punch.”
“Does that sound like something I’d do?”
“Eddie, I’m not the one who has to answer that question.”
“Mr. Woodruff, I walked into the bathroom and they were picking on Clyde and I told them to stop, and they didn’t. And I warned them that if they didn’t stop, I’d report them. That’s when Pearl threatened to kill me. And then he attacked me.”
Eddie pointed to his nose. Its bridge was bruised with a smattering of dark purple.
Eddie said, “Ask Clyde. I’m sure he’ll say the same thing.”
“No one has seen Clyde, so that leaves me with two distinctly different versions of what happened.”
“Mr. Woodruff, honestly, there’s no love loss between Pearl and me. I think he’s a jerk, and I despise him. So if that’s a crime, then I’m guilty. And, yes, I’ve done things in the past, as you know—”
“Smoke bomb,” Woodruff interjected.
“Which I regret and I’m still ashamed of. I swear to you, my sole intention was to get these thugs to leave poor, defenseless Clyde alone. I didn’t throw the first punch. And do you know why I didn’t throw the first punch?”
“Why?”
“Because I was taught that ‘Violence is never a solution to a grievance when diplomacy, reason, and courage are the true weapons against discord.’”
Woodruff’s lips pinched into a smile. “Cassius Merriweather. That’s a profound quotation.”
“He was a profound man. He fought to protect the weak and the abject from inequalities. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s actually inequities.”
Woodruff uncrossed his arms, rubbed his bald head, and smiled, satisfied.
*
Ms. Phelps frowned at what she was hearing and then paraphrased to be sure she’d heard correctly. “Elijah Pearl will be serving a suspension, and Eddie Crowe will not.”
“Correct,” Woodruff responded.
“And this is entirely based on Mr. Crowe’s account of what happened?”
Woodruff sighed. “Could you please get Peggy to fill out the paperwork?”
“Certainly. And what’s the final version of the story?”
Woodruff knew Ms. Phelps wouldn’t let this go. Along with her devotion to assisting Woodruff in his daily duties, she’d also routinely second-guess many of his decisions.
“Elijah started the fight. Eddie was forced to defend himself and Clyde Mason.” Woodruff tapped on the window to her office door.
“So Clyde’s version of the events was the same as Eddie’s?”
“What?” Woodruff had turned to go but tipped his head back into her office.
“I’m assuming you spoke with Clyde and Scottie Fricker about what happened?”
“Scottie Fricker is hardly a reliable witness. He and Elijah essentially share the same brain.”
“So you didn’t vet Scottie?”
“Christ’s sake, Elaine. Vet? Are you a covert agent for the C.I.A.?”
Ms. Phelps took off her glasses. “Did you speak with Scottie Fricker?”
“No.”
“Did you speak with Clyde Mason?”
“No, I did not. Is that a problem?” Woodruff asked as he rubbed his head with frustration.
Phelps looked at him in silence. She then said, “If it isn’t a problem for you.”
Woodruff feigned a smile and began to walk away.
Phelps said, “Perhaps you should consider a third option: placing both students on suspension.”
Woodruff stopped mid-step.
Phelps continued, “It would really send a clear message to the other students that this behavior will not be tolerated.”
Woodruff stared blankly at her. Phelps inferred from his gaze that she now had his ear. “I’ve observed a rise in aggressive and delinquent behavior, as well as a disregard for authority. Just the other day, Binh Duong, the Vietnamese exchange student—”
“Yeah, I know. He was flicking cigarette butts like silo missiles at the girls’ track team,” Woodruff said, attempting to beat her to the punch without hearing more.
That didn’t stop Phelps. “He had been a quiet, respectful student. Just two months ago he came here from a part of the world culturally different from our self-indulgent, youth-oriented, bad-behavior-is-rewarded society. Now he models what he sees. As the heads of faculty, we should be embarrassed by that.”
“It’s not like he held up an old lady crossing the street,” Woodruff chimed with a chuckle.
Phelps squinted at Woodruff. She turned on her pedantic singsong voice. “Robert, this is a serious matter. We’re the stewards of these young adults. Their parents have trusted us to educate them in a safe environment. They’re in bodies they barely comprehend and are susceptible to committing acts without truly understanding the consequences.”
Woodruff glanced at her desk. It was fastidiously neat and organized, much like Ms. Phelps. It held one photograph: her dog, a male bullmastiff named Riley, which Woodruff guessed she’d personally neutered. Woodruff then spotted the book Trigger Finger, USA: The Psychosis of Violence in America. It made sense to him now. He’d heard Ms. Phelps reference the author, Dr. Stundel, as if he were the second coming of Christ.
“You’ve really given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?” Woodruff asked.
“And you haven’t?”
“Of course I have. You’re not insinuating—”
“No,” Phelps quickly replied.
They looked at each other. Neither had ever really understood how to communicate with the other. Every moment Woodruff had to deal with Ms. Phelps was an insufferable part of his day. He’d tried to establish a viable working relationship with her from the beginning. Superintendent Collins had first borrowed her temporarily from Clintock Middle School to fill Carla Doomis’s shoes, since she’d gone on maternity leave. When Carla had informed the school she wouldn’t be coming back, Collins had offered Phelps the assistant principal position. Phelps had quickly settled into her new office, but Woodruff could tell they were diametrically different: she was austere, by the book, and at times standoffish. Woodruff had seriously considered going to Collins and recommending Phelps be moved to another school, but that wasn’t his style. He believed things had a natural way of working out and that she’d eventually get the hint, grab a cardboard box, pack up her photograph of Riley, and permanently vacate the building.
Woodruff gazed at her. “Elaine, if there’s a better way of handling this, I’m all ears. I welcome any suggestion you might have.”
Phelps smiled excitedly. “Good, because I was thinking—”
Woodruff held up his hand. “However, I feel I’m more than able to handle disciplining the students. If I run into any problems, I’ll be sure to ask you.”
Woodruff smiled and walked off before Phelps could respond. She drew a deep breath and then exhaled with a burst of frustration. Her attention drifted back to Dr. Stundel’s book.
*
Eddie had missed most of lunch recess because of his conversation with Principal Woodruff. Woodruff had given Eddie the choice of going home, which he’d declined. Eddie was certain that as soon as he arrived home, his mother would crush him with an avalanche of questions. To delay the inevitable, he requested Woodruff not call his mother about the incident. Woodruff had felt it necessary to follow protocol and had called Eddie’s mother anyway. As Eddie had predicted, his mother had expressed an inordinate amount of motherly concern, which Woodruff had assuaged by assuring her Eddie was in good spirits and still had all his teeth intact.
As Eddie walked the hallways to his locker, he noticed his schoolmates’ curious glances. News of fights traveled fast at Clintock High, and it appeared everyone was aware of his brawl with Pearl. The looks were scrutinizing and marked with a morbid fascination: they were interested in this victim on display—the car wreck along the side of the road. Some wore the mask of pity, suggesting that in this brief moment they may have actually cared for his well-being—or, more likely, they were grateful it wasn’t them. Other expressions seemed to suggest to Eddie that he deserved what he got, and that he was lucky he didn’t get worse. Most striking were the looks of disappointment, as if some had placed bets on Eddie, the underdog, and had lost big.
Mike Venicci voiced his condolences to Eddie as if speaking to a person stricken with a terminal illness, and Carl Motts gave him unsolicited advice about useful UFC takedown moves should there be a rematch. Simon had the most peculiar reaction: he only vaguely acknowledged the fight and acted almost as if it hadn’t happened.
Eddie stepped up to his locker. Angela was nearby, spinning the combination to her own locker. He avoided eye contact with her, mainly out of embarrassment: he’d gone up against the resident monster of the school and lost, and she probably knew about it too.
Eddie had lied to Principal Woodruff: technically he’d thrown the first punch—the glancing blow to Pearl’s head. It had happened after Eddie had tried to revise the insult he’d mumbled at Pearl and Scottie. Eddie had vehemently denied insulting them and had been resigned to leaving the bathroom when Pearl had cornered him. Only then had Eddie swung wildly, provoking Pearl into a fight. The outcome disgusted Eddie—not only had he been willing to scamper away with his tail between his legs to avoid the fight, he’d also bungled an opportunity to reclaim his dignity. Had he told the truth to Woodruff, he likely would’ve been suspended as well.
Eddie had peered into his locker, unable to remember why he’d opened it, when he felt the shove to his shoulder. He turned and saw Pearl’s piercing blue eyes. They glowed neon bright, primed to fire off like lasers.
“You lied, asshole,” Pearl whispered. “You hit me first.”
“What about what you did to me this morning?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, faggot.”
“When you hit me from behind.”
“Your clumsy ass tripped. I tried to help you up.”
“Who’s lying now?” Eddie said, pretending to search for a book inside his locker.
“Just ’cause Woodruff believed your lie doesn’t make you more innocent than me. If you could’ve, you would’ve bashed my head in.”
“I’m not like you.”
“You’re right—you’re a pussy.”
“Maybe so, but guess who got suspended and who didn’t?”
Pearl sucked air through his nose and made a fist. Eddie whispered softly, “Go ahead and hit me. As soon as Woodruff finds out, we’ll see what happens.”
The artery on Pearl’s forehead pulsated wildly. Eddie wondered if it would burst through his skin—gushing blood from a demon’s heart. Eddie felt emboldened, tempting the angel of death to take his best shot, only to realize going to war with Pearl would only make his life a living hell.
“I don’t want any trouble,” said Eddie. “I’m willing to tell Woodruff it was just a misunderstanding. We can walk back to his office and I’ll tell him we made up. I can’t make any promises, but maybe I can convince him to knock that suspension down to just a detention. Worth a shot, right?”
Pearl’s face slightly softened as if he considered it. He then said, “Eat shit, asshole.”
That’s when Eddie heard Brianna Ling scream, “He’s got a gun!”
*
Angela crammed herself up against a locked classroom door. Most students had cleared out from the hallway into classrooms or, she assumed, out of the building. She could see no one from where she hid in the alcove. Her sole companions were fear and dread—they delighted in displaying the gruesome outcome awaiting her. Not long ago, she’d seen a news program about survival techniques during a plane crash. Described were the predominant behavioral differences between those who had a better chance of survival and those who didn’t. Unfortunately, the program hadn’t presented any scenarios similar to the one she found herself in now. She’d have to improvise. There was one key thing she remembered: don’t panic.
She’d heard about Columbine, and the tragic school massacre in Parkland, and the other mass shootings that had become so prevalent in recent years. Those ghastly, horrific events had captivated her. Unlike many her age, she was cognizant of her mortality. Sure, she smoked, but she had every intention of quitting by the time she reached her mother’s age. If she survived long enough to reach that age.
Don’t panic, she reminded herself.
Angela replayed the events: there was Brianna’s jolting scream and the chuh-chuh sound of a pump-action weapon. Then Angela had turned and had spotted Clyde Mason, and he had what appeared to be a shotgun. While the students had scattered, Angela had gone to the door to her left, but it was locked. She’d held her breath, expecting to hear gunfire and, perhaps, perpetual silence. But several seconds had passed, even though it had felt like a millennium.
Angela had interacted with Clyde on a few occasions. He was like a scared turtle who would occasionally pop his head out whenever they’d cross paths, almost as if he wanted her to notice him. She’d once spotted him drawing a picture of her during lunch period, which he’d quickly discarded. Not long after, she’d found an anonymous note in her locker. It was a drawing of her emerging from the water as if transformed into a beautiful swan. The drawing wasn’t very good, but there was a sweet sentiment to it. Also on the note was a word scramble. It was a cipher that included a list of letters to fill in the gaps to form a sentence. The most Angela had been able to decipher was: I T H I N K
The rest was a mystery. Whoever had given it to her either had wanted to drive her crazy with wonder or was horrible at spelling and had messed up their own cipher. A few times she’d witnessed Clyde walking up to her locker as if he thought it was his by mistake––his locker was the next one over. Perhaps that had been a ruse, for she’d grown certain Clyde had been her one and only secret admirer. And now, apparently, this secret admirer was on a rampage.
Should she text her mother, tell her how much she loved her? Angela wondered if she’d ever see her or her sister again.
She could hear talking. It was Clyde. He was uncharacteristically brusque and commanding. Angela poked her head out, hoping to sneak a peek at what was going on. If she were going to die, she wanted to understand why.
Clyde’s back was to her. He was pointing a shotgun at Pearl and Eddie, who gaped with fear and puzzlement.
“I said, unbutton your pants,” Clyde commanded Pearl.
Angela could see Clyde motioning the barrel at Pearl’s head. She wondered if Pearl’s face would vanish in the span of a blink. She closed her eyes, imagining the burst of brain matter, and then quickly opened them because her imagination frightened her.
Eddie was looking at her. His gaze breathed with a pure, exquisite earnestness, vaguely lovelorn because she might be the last girl he’d ever see. Or was she imagining that too? Her mind was playing tricks—overwhelmed by this surreal nightmare.
Pearl unfastened his pants.
“Reach into his pants,” Clyde said to Eddie.
“Huh?”
“Reach in there and grab his underwear!”
“What?”
“Do it!”
Eddie reached into Pearl’s jeans; his fingers prodded in a search of the elastic band.
“Give him a wedgie,” said Clyde.
“I don’t think he’s got underwear.”
“I don’t,” responded Pearl.
“Bullshit!”
“I don’t.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not. I don’t wear underwear.”
“You better be wearing underwear or I’m gonna shoot you.”
A frightened yelp caused Angela to gasp. Clyde turned his head in her direction. Angela quickly sunk back into the doorway, pressing the small of her back against the handle. She held her breath.
Eddie exclaimed, “I can give him a wedgie without the underwear.”
“You can’t do a wedgie without underwear,” grumbled Clyde.
“Yes, I can.”
“An atomic wedgie. It has to be that.”
“Uh-huh. I can do that.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is . . . look.”
Angela could hear Eddie exerting himself, followed by him saying, “See.”
“I said atomic,” Clyde whined. “Do it harder.”
“Urrrrrgh.”
“Harder!”
“Urrrrrrgh . . . urgh . . . urgh.”
“That felt atomic,” Pearl said unconvincingly.
“Shut up!” cried Clyde. “I hate you. I hate all of you bastards.”
There was a metallic rattle against the lockers and then a scuffle. Sneakers screeched on the tile like a frenetic basketball game on a freshly polished gymnasium floor. Angela cupped her ears as she waited for the imminent blast.
A sharp thud reverberated down the hallway. Another shot followed. Someone cried out with pain.
A blur glided past her like a fluttering image in an old-fashioned zoetrope: Mr. Edwards sprinting toward the mayhem. There was grunting, another shot, then a chaotic tussle punctuated by a rising, baleful shrill.
Angela covered her mouth; she felt suspended by the surrounding thickening air. Clyde had cried out.
