Cheated Read online

  He coughed loudly, then looked outside as the bus lurched down Morrish Road toward school. “I wonder if the Scarecrow is out there yet?” Brody asked, then closed his eyes again.

  “Too early, probably sleeping it off,” I replied. “Like I wish I could’ve done.”

  “Well, you ain’t no Scarecrow,” Brody said, then bounced his beefy paw off my knee.

  “Guess not,” I offered, then looked near the entrance ramp to the expressway for the Scarecrow, a homeless guy with long, dirty blond hair, ratty clothes, and a straw hat, which was why Brody called him the Scarecrow. He held up a sign that said HUNGRY VET, PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS, but few cars stopped. One day ex-Dad stopped, rolled down the window, and yelled at him, “Get a job,” then drove away. I heard his reply. If ex-Dad did, he never reacted when the Scarecrow yelled back, “Where?” I’d seen the Scarecrow by the road other times and by the Big K Market.

  The last part of the ride was as silent for Brody and me as it was noisy for the rest of the bus. The noise swirled with the force of a hurricane, but I acted calm as the bus pulled into the school’s circular driveway. Whitney World and the Dragon True Believers seemingly sprang from the bus and rushed toward school, while the stoners, the waking wild man Brody, and I stumbled like zombies from the grave toward the building’s front door.

  Do you know what it’s like to be paralyzed?

  That’s how I felt: I couldn’t make my mouth open or my tongue move. All I could do was listen and watch. Listen to the sick sound of a brick smashing against a human skull, then watch the blood splatter like red rain. From across the few feet that separated me from the very real scene before me, I could hear the smack of brick against bone. It sounded like someone dropping a heavy book off a desk. My eyes were wide, gazing at his eyes, open to the world and closed off to life. My nose cut through the rancid smells already in the air and the rancid mess he made in his pants as life left him. Another hard smash of the brick right above those lifeless eyes left me with the image I’ll never erase: his left eye swollen shut, the right one wide open, staring, it seemed, right into my soul. He was a nonliving answer to a question I had never asked: what did a dead body look like?

  8:00 a.m., Homeroom

  I headed straight for my locker, wondering if my lockermate, Aaron, would be there. I was supposed to share a locker with my ex-friend Garrett, but after this summer, those plans changed. Brody still had to share with Ben Rankin, one of his ex-teammates, so his locker was covered with Spirit Club streamers and balloons. I walked head down through halls ringing with wild laughter, flowing red crepe paper, and the sounds of happy couples laughing.

  My locker was bare. Aaron’s army surplus jacket sat on top of a stack of his magazines with video game cheat codes. I was surprised to see Aaron’s stuff after last night’s mix of rum, cola, and unexpected angry mood. I dropped off some books, so by the time I stepped through the doorway of Mr. Steinbach’s noisy homeroom, the bell had gone silent.

  “Please be quiet for announcements,” Steinbach said to little reaction.

  I put my head down on my desk, closed my eyes, and made up my own announcements rather than listen to the endless list of clubs, events, and activities that touched my life not at all: May I have your attention, please? Mick Salisbury would like to announce that he’s sorry about what he did to Nicole, he wants her back, and he wants her to know it wasn’t his fault. Mick also wants to announce that Roxanne Gray is a lying slut. Everybody have a great Dragon Day!

  I loved homeroom last year; that’s where I’d met Nicole. By the ninth day of ninth grade, I’d fallen for her. I remember how her long brown hair always fell in her face. I would see her in homeroom and long to reach over, brush it back, and see her brown eyes smile at me.

  I got her attention last year by doing fake announcements: Your attention, please! The Chess Club challenges the Mathletes to a geek-off. The horn section of the Marching Band would like to tell the school: blow us. If you’ve ever wanted to see France, join the French Club. If you’d prefer to see Jackson State Prison, then please join Dave Wilson and the stoners after school behind the bleachers. Finally, for all seniors wanting to graduate this year, the teachers would like to say “Good riddance, you losers.” Now, have a great Dragon Day! She’d laugh, even at the weaker, unfunny ones. What she was really laughing at, I thought, was how hard I was trying to impress her and make her like me.

  The only girl in this year’s homeroom that interested me above the belt was the one Brody called Cell Phone Girl. Even though we had two classes together last year and homeroom this year, I still didn’t even know her name. That fact said something, even if she never ever did. While I’m not one to volunteer to speak, I’d talk in class if the teacher called on me. But this girl never said a word to anyone, not teacher or student. The teachers rarely said anything to her, other than to tell her to put away her cell phone, which she never did for long. She used no makeup, had dirty blond hair that was either greasy or unwashed, and wore an oversized gray hooded sweatshirt. She’d put her head down on her desk, when Steinbach wasn’t looking, but somehow I could always see her peek at the phone buried in the sweatshirt’s pocket. Her best move was to transfer the cell phone from the pocket and bury it in the sleeve. She’d pull down the sleeve or nudge the phone out every five minutes or so, look all sad again, and then put her head back down on the desk. As isolated as I felt, especially after Nicole dumped me, I couldn’t imagine what was going on with Cell Phone Girl. I wanted to say to her, Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll help.

  That morning, I was obsessed with wondering if people wondered about me. Were other people in homeroom thinking of things they’d like to say to me? Was Cell Phone Girl sitting there, in between phone peeks and sullen sighs, thinking, I wonder what’s going on with Mick Salisbury? He’s dating Nicole, and he loses her for a couple of seconds with Roxanne? What’s wrong with him? Oh, right, his dad was like that, too. But Cell Phone Girl never spoke to me, and I never tried to know her. We sat just feet apart, but with miles between us.

  By the time the bell rang for first period, I’d asked myself that same question: what was wrong with me? I knew that home was where the heart was broken. Always hovering over my life was how ex-Dad betrayed my mom, then I betrayed him. But two wrongs didn’t make anything right. The base of this triangle of lies was ex-Dad’s refusal to confess or repent. His brick wall of silence, of refusing to admit responsibility, stuck like a bone in my throat. Mom used to talk about it more, especially when she was in therapy after the divorce. She always said that until ex-Dad accepted responsibility, then none of us would be fully healed. I didn’t much care about ex-Dad’s healing, I cared more about hearing his apology or explanation.

  As I trudged slowly from homeroom out into the hallway, I thought not about school but about home. Thinking about Mom and ex-Dad made me walk slower, like a pile of bricks was on my back. Your family isn’t just your family: it is your history, your future, and your burden.

  Do you think about being famous?

  Everybody I know does. Most won’t come right out and talk about it, but it’s always there underneath the surface. That’s why I used to do those mock interviews with Brody. It made him feel like a star. But not just Brody; anybody who ever picked up a football, baseball, or basketball thinks one day they’re going to end up on ESPN, on the cover of Sports Illustrated, or at the least in the local newspaper, the Flint Journal. Anybody who’s ever sung a note, or played in the band, or acted, must think about cutting a CD, making a music video, or starring in a movie. I never did any of those things—I’m not a jock or some band geek—but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have dreams of being famous. Now I would dread seeing my name in the paper. I wouldn’t be famous, but infamous. But I don’t have to worry about reading the paper myself because they don’t let you do that at the Genesee County Juvenile Detention Center.

  First Period

  I hated whoever made up my school schedule, putting Project Physics first
hour. Project Physics was one of the many code words at Creek for “no-college kids.” I knew that Whitney and her group were two doors down in real physics, while Nicole and a select few took honors physics. Their futures burned bright, while I toiled away in darkness.

  The worst part of first period was my second glimpse of Roxanne. She sat on the other side of the room, so short that I could barely see her on the stool. She wore black mascara, dark brown lipstick, and two big silver hoop earrings. Her tight black Snoop Dogg T-shirt showed off her stomach, and her eyes showered me in shame. I paid little attention to Mr. Gates as he rambled on about the project before us, because I couldn’t get my mind off the past or my eyes off Roxanne. I laughed when Mr. Gates reminded us not to put our hands in the fire when we used the Bunsen burners. I glared at Roxanne and knew it was a “been there, done that” moment.

  It was at a pool party at Rex Wallace’s house over Labor Day. The partygoers were mainly football players, and they’d all signed Words of Honor, a pledge not to drink or do drugs. They were mostly older kids, but since Brody made varsity as a tenth-grader, he was invited. And where Brody went, I followed. Aaron was busy with his mom and step-dad, while Nicole and her family were camping in Canada. She’d only be gone a few days but I missed her badly, and for once couldn’t wait for school to start so I could see her every day. Brody kept pushing me for details about Nicole as we walked over to the party, but I stayed quiet since I didn’t have much to tell. I desperately loved Nicole, but she wouldn’t let me show it beyond kissing. At the party, Brody was thirsty and I was hungry for Nicole. With an empty stomach and a troubled mind I created the chemical compound that exploded my life.

  Brody had lifted a bottle of rum from Rex’s parent’s liquor cabinet, and the two of us took off, which was fine since I didn’t know many people at the party anyway. We went into the woods behind Rex’s house only to find Roxanne and other WindGate girls getting high. Even though Brody and I barely knew them, they invited us to party with them. Brody declined, but dared me to partake. When Roxanne passed me the joint, her tiny fingers set off odd reactions in me. I wanted to ask Roxanne: Why are you here? You’re not a prep or a cheerleader. You’re not dating a football player. You’re in with the wrong crowd, like me.

  After a while, the other girls and Brody headed back to the party, while Roxanne and I stayed behind. She took off her jacket, put it down on the brown dirt and patches of grass, then lowered herself onto it. I took one look at Roxanne’s wet inviting mouth and knew I should run away. Instead, I let her pull me down and lay on the cold ground next to her. But the cold earth didn’t sober me up. Mom had beaten me up since day one about drugs, yet I’d betrayed her because it was so easy and available. All those endless lectures, all those DARE classes at school, and now all those words meant nothing.

  I looked into Roxanne’s mascara-heavy eyes, then glanced back toward the party. I thought about those confident football players, and I knew I didn’t belong. I didn’t even deserve to be with Nicole, she was too good for me. No, I really belonged with the other losers, like Roxanne. She pushed up against me and whispered something into my ear about scoring. As we kissed, she held on to me, but not around the shoulders; she put her hands on my belt. Her tongue tickled my ear while her fingers unbuckled my belt. The summer breeze washed over my face as Roxanne pushed my pants down just far enough. My feet remained perfectly still and my left arm wrapped around Roxanne; my right arm was useless as Roxanne’s tiny hand took control. For that second, our eyes met, but no words were exchanged. It was just Roxanne’s crooked smile and my heavy breathing. When it was over, I pulled up my pants but remained on the cold ground stunned as if I’d been struck by skin-burning lightning.

  In Project Physics that morning, thinking about the past, I was angry at Roxanne for stumbling into my path. But she wasn’t the only target of my anger. I hated whatever person told Nicole, but the heat didn’t belong there either. I guess I hated Brody for putting the rum in my hand and the evening in motion. Even through smudged safety glasses, I could see that the red-hot fury really belonged in one place and one place alone. I ignored Mr. Gates shouting out my name as I put my hand over the small Bunsen burner, giving my pain badly needed, if only temporary, release.

  Did you know that not all blood is red?

  On TV, it looks crimson, like our school colors. Bright. Vivid. Or maybe that’s just the color of blood from the living, not from the dead. We checked his pulse and there was none, so the heart didn’t pump the blood, it just oozed out of him. Gravity took over as the almost purple liquid dripped out of the deep wounds in the dead body drop by drop. We were there when he made the transition from person to corpse. The blood mixed with the brown dirt and the yellow and red leaves, like a box of dark-colored Crayolas melting in the sun. That must be the color of a rainbow in hell.

  Second Period

  My quick trip to the school nurse and around the truth of my not-so-accidental accident made me late for math, which was my best subject. I handed the pass to Mrs. Webster hoping she wouldn’t notice the bandage on my hand, and walked to my seat slowly, trying in vain to make eye contact with Whitney. But the numbers on the board were more important to her than my sad smile. I wanted to stop at her desk and whisper, Whitney, please save me from myself. Instead, I went straight to my seat next to Aaron. Aaron shot me a half smile, readjusted his glasses, then tugged on his blond hair as he focused his bloodshot eyes on the blackboard.

  Up on the board, Mrs. Webster was drawing various triangles. I didn’t need math to see three-sided shapes: me, Brody, and Aaron; me, Mom, and ex-Dad. Only the girls I thought about had more than three sides—from Whitney, who I lusted after, to Nicole, who I yearned for; from Roxanne, who I was angry at, to Cell Phone Girl, who I was curious about. Girls in my world weren’t a triangle, a circle, or a square; they were an infinite plane. But everywhere else, I saw triangles. Go to church and talk about the Trinity. Study government and learn about the three branches. There might be two sides to every story, but it took three sides to make that story interesting.

  Of them all, it was the triangle of Brody, Aaron, and me that was strongest. We shared more than poker, jokes, and rum; we were all abandoned sons. One of the first things Brody and I learned about Aaron was how he almost died in the same car accident that took his father’s life. Brody and Aaron miss the joy of having their dads around. Even if ex-Dad only saw me every other weekend, he took full advantage of that time by bossing me around and telling me how to behave, to stay away from Brody, and to teach me life lessons, like how to be smart with money.

  Ex-Dad has this crazy thing about money. He’s a fanatic about always counting the change and keeping the books. When I visit him, he lets me earn money doing chores around the apartment, but then he brings out “the book.” The book is a small black accounting ledger and part of the deal. Ex-Dad pays me for my work, but I need to record the money I get and show him, down to the last penny and including receipts, how I spend it. When I was younger, it was easy to do since I’d spend my money on stuff ex-Dad approved of. By high school, I had to make up lies and get money from Aaron to buy stuff “off the book.” I’d learned in social studies how big companies did stuff like that all the time, cheating people out of millions of dollars by faking their own books, so it didn’t seem like such a big deal.

  I tried to concentrate on the problems on the board, but Whitney’s perfect shape was only three desks away. I couldn’t see her face, just the blond hair stretching down her back. I imagined that hair swaying to music, the music of the homecoming dance. I could imagine the whole scene now. I’d have Mom drive us to the dance; I would see the pride in her eyes as she said, “Whitney, a pleasure to meet you. But more than that, I could imagine Nicole coming up to me during the dance, saying, Mick, I forgive you; let’s get back together.

  “Aaron, I need a favor,” I whispered as I tapped my pencil against his desk.

  “Name it,” Aaron replied. His attention wasn’t on
me or the blackboard but on the Electronic Gaming Monthly magazine stuffed inside his math book.

  “Can you loan me sixty bucks?” I asked, half ashamed, half anxious with anticipation. I was talking to Aaron, but staring at Whitney. Even when her best friend, Shelby, caught me staring and shot me a dirty look, I still couldn’t look away from Whitney.

  “Sure,” Aaron answered, as he always did. Brody and I liked Aaron, and welcomed him in as our friend, but the truth was, he also bought his way in. Aaron’s new stepdad used money as buddy barter; it seemed to be a lesson Aaron practiced himself.

  “Thanks, I owe you,” I said out of habit since I never paid him back in cash.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” Aaron asked, as his fingers nervously twisted his longish blond hair. I’d seen Aaron pull out long strands by accident. “You get in another fight?”

  I laughed, but managed to avoid capture by Mrs. Webster’s glare. “No, an accident.”

  “What’s it for?” Aaron asked as he reached for his wallet. “Just curious, doesn’t matter.”

  “Homecoming tickets for me and Whitney,” I whispered as I waited for three twenties.

  “Whitney?” Aaron knew all about my lust life, but he rarely reciprocated by sharing details with Brody and me about his long-distance girlfriend, Debbie. “You’re not getting back with Nicole?”

  “Nicole’s dead to me,” I said overdramatically, like I was trying to convince myself.

  “We’ll drink to another death then,” Aaron said with a wink, then turned to face Mrs. Webster after handing me the bills. She was discussing a proof, but all I could think about was the proof of the rum we’d drink later that night.