Mercy Rule

  Do not go to school tomorrow.

  How come? Are you ditching?

  Ditching is bad for you, you know

  Just don’t.

  What are you talking about?

  Hey man, what are you talking about?

  What’s up?

  Dude come on

  Text me back

  Copyright © 2018 by Tom Leveen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Sammy Yuen

  Cover image credit iStockphoto

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2698-7

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-5107-2701-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Rock ’N’ Roll High School

  I Wanna Be Sedated

  Humankind

  Daytime Dilemma (Dangers of Love)

  We’re a Happy Family

  Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

  Too Tough to Die

  Death of Me

  53rd & 3rd

  Rock ’N’ Roll High School

  DANNY

  Dad starts in before my ass even touches the kitchen chair.

  “You’re going to school like that?” he says, shoveling four metric tons of waffles and sausages into his big cheesehead mouth.

  Mom lends her agreement. “Oh, Danny.”

  “What,” I say, and sit.

  My sister pleads with the yellow ceiling, like maybe that’s where God lives.

  He doesn’t. I’ve checked.

  She whines, “Can’t you make him change out of that shit?”

  Mom’s eyebrows indicate, It’s out of my hands.

  “Shitty McShitshit,” I say, as an experiment.

  “Watch your mouth,” Mom says.

  “Just testing,” I say. I wasn’t hungry before this, and now I’m super not-hungry.

  “You need to eat something,” she says.

  Dad stabs a piece of meat. Wishing it was me. He scarfs it, and the four waffles on his plate vanish next. He vaults out of his chair in his haste to get more from the stack on the stove and agrees with Mom. “Wouldn’t kill you to put on a pound or two.”

  “Speaking of putting on a pound or two,” I say, turning to my sister.

  “Hey!” Dad snaps, and Mom says, “Danny!” and my sister says, “Fuck you!” She says it in this wounded singsong that turns it into four syllables: fu-UCK yoo-UH.

  She does not get told to watch her mouth.

  “I see my work here is done,” I say. My sister is not fat. She is opposite of fat. Like me, I guess. I just know what buttons to push. It’s a gift.

  “Damn it, Danny,” Dad says, lancing more waffles with javelin precision. “You go to school like that, you’re liable to get your ass handed to you.”

  “Really?” I say. “By whom, Father?”

  He doesn’t answer. Mom dares to make contact, putting one hand over mine.

  “Please,” she says. “Dad’s right. You don’t want to start your first day of high school like this.”

  “First day at this high school,” I say. “This one. I’m a sophomore. I didn’t want to go to this school at all, if you’ll recall. I made a very convincing argument for staying at—”

  “Stop,” Dad says. “You had your shot, you blew it. Now you deal.”

  I shut up for a second, then ask, “So how do you all recommend I start my first day at this school? Being that it’s such a fine institution of learning and, no doubt—” I gesture to Big Sis. “Civility?”

  “Start by staying way-far away from me,” Big Sis declares. It’s the first day of her senior year, and I pose a threat to her social standing. “I’m out of here.”

  “See you at lunch,” I say. “Shall we dine together in the quad?”

  “Listen, you little geek,” she says. “I’m not kidding. You stay away from me, all day, every day, until and unless you stop wearing dresses around. All right? I’ve got enough shit to deal with without you being a pain in my ass.”

  No one says anything. I lean over the table and raise my index fingers. “So, she can swear, right?” I ask my parents. “Just for clarification. She can cuss, and it’s okay?”

  Dad doesn’t sit back down to finish off his waffles. Just stays standing by the stove, letting his height dominate us as he says, “You’ve got bigger things to worry about than your sister.”

  “Well,” I say, unable to resist the obvious bump-set Dad just gave me. “She is a big thing.”

  “Bye,” my sister hurls in our general direction. She heads out the kitchen door when one of her meathead boyfriends honks his horn outside.

  “Thank you for a lovely breakfast,” I say, getting up.

  “You need to eat,” Mom says.

  “No, I just need a ride.”

  Dad wipes his mouth with a dish towel. “Good luck with that.”

  “I can’t take him,” Mom says. “I’ve got a meeting at eight.”

  “He can walk, then. Do him some good.”

  “You want wind sprints too?” I ask. I can’t believe he’s actually going to make me walk.

  Dad says nothing. He hefts his bag, gives Mom a rough kiss on top of her hair, and goes to the door leading into the garage.

  All the garages lining our street are decorated like modern art museums that cater to the owners’ tastes. For example, one is dedicated to aircraft, another to billiards, another like a 1950s soda shop.

  Dad’s? The Green Bay Packers.

  We don’t live anywhere near Green Bay.

  Or Wisconsin.

  “You decide to start dressing like a normal human being, I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go,” Dad says from the doorway. “Till then, you walk.”

  He shuts the door. A second later, his enormous silver F-150 guns, and I hear it move out to the street.

  “Is this for real?” I say to Mom.

  She carries her plate to the sink. “You’re wearing a skirt, Danny.”

  “It’s a kilt. The MacDougall Clan wears them all the time. It’s a statement.” The MacDougall Clan is a Scottish-pub/industrial band I love. No one’s heard of them.

  “I don’t care what it is, you know better,” Mom says. “You’re asking for trouble.”

  “Not if I was at my real school.”

  “You should have thought about that before you forced us to take you out of your ‘real school,’” Mom says. “Danny, you’ve got to learn to control your temper.”

  “I was controlling it.”

  “Some way other than drugs.”

  “Drugs I procure, you mean. If I get them from our lovely family doctor, then it’s okay. Right? Even if they’re the same drugs? Explain that to me.”

  “You’re not a doctor. The end.”

  So that’s where I get my sarcasm from. It’s sure not fr
om Dad.

  “Fine,” I say. “It’s still got nothing to do with my clothes. Why can’t I wear what I want?”

  “You can. Just be prepared for the consequences.”

  And with that sound motherly advice, she walks out of the kitchen.

  I change into black jeans, and take my time walking to my first day of classes as Karate High School jams in my ears. About a block from school someone honks and shouts something at me. Fortunately, the music cancels out most of it.

  Most of it.

  CADENCE

  That kid is going to die!

  That’s the very first thought that passes through my wee little freshman head the very first instant my foot crosses from the sidewalk to the parking lot on the very first day of school.

  For starters, if he’d read the student handbook, which I did, because Dad made me, he’d know trench coats and dusters were banned years ago. I’d rather be wearing one of my tank tops today, but those are outlawed too, so I’m making due with a Ramones T-shirt like everyone else. Not that everyone else is wearing a Ramones T-shirt, I just mean a T-shirt in general.

  Second, it’s hot. Hot like, stupid-humid hot. Hot like, why-am-I-wearing-makeup-today-it-will-only-melt-off, hot. That makes his coat a “statement.” A big loud statement that will definitely get him noticed, and not in a good way!

  Third, if he was looking to accessorize with a studded belt or something, he could probably get away with it. But he has about five too many buckles, studs, and spikes sticking out from various pieces of clothing and he doesn’t have the body to support any of it. He looks like the firstborn of Hot Topic and KISS, or maybe Slipknot and Carpathian Forest. That’s fine with me, as it should be, considering I’ve got a bright-pink Jolly Roger pirate flag on the back of my black shorts, but I am pretty sure it’s not the first impression he should be giving.

  I try to push through all the other students, cars, bikes, and boards to get to him, tell him to go home, take the absence, change your clothes. A friend of mine tried that look last year in junior high and paid for it every day till we graduated. No one deserves that, not for something as stupid as clothes. He ended up going to a private school this year. Sad face! Maybe I can help this kid the way I should’ve helped him.

  But the trench coat kid disappears inside the school before I can get to him. Well, I’ll run into him sooner or later. Three junior highs feed into this place, but no matter how big a school is, it’s small. Word’ll get around fast about him, I’m sure!

  As for my wee self, my first actual encounter with high school kids starts with a girl passing me in the breezeway, glancing down, and saying, “Nice shoes,” in that way that makes it pretty clear she does not think they are nice at all.

  I freeze and look down at my Kermit the Frog Converse, because it’s better to let the girl and her friends move along. A person who acts and talks like that? Her vision is based on movement. She can’t see you if you don’t move. Rawr.

  I knew my Kermie shoes from last year were a bad idea, but did I take my own advice? Nooooo. Mom and Dad and Johnny have given up trying to stop me from making decisions like that, for which I bless them. Still, I wish someone had given me a heads-up.

  One of my friends would have, I’m sure, but they’re all gone. I ended up here while all of them went to another school. Plus, Faith moved in June, Gloria got pregnant for God’s sake, and Liza hasn’t been let out of rehab yet. What a summer! Sad face!

  The girls pass. The combination of hair flips, hip tilts, and trendy bags makes it pretty clear they’re probably sophomores. Or juniors even. Seniors wouldn’t have bothered with me, I don’t think. Seniors have Big-Kid-College-Prom-SAT Plans, like Johnny did last year. And yet he still lives with us! I guess some plans just don’t go according to … um. Plan.

  Since I have already ceased to exist to them, I follow the crowd inside and try to head for my locker, except when I turn to look for it, I plow into a wall. Awesome!

  Wait, nope. Not a wall, a guy.

  “Whoa, sorry,” he says.

  He’s stopped beside me. I look up at him. I keep looking up. And up, and up, and up.

  “Wow you’re tall,” I say.

  “Thanks,” the guy says, not quite smiling, but not quite not.

  “And really cute,” I add, because if there’s one thing I cannot do, it is keep my mouth from running.

  “Thanks,” he repeats, but he doesn’t sound too sure he should be saying it.

  “I’m Cadence.”

  “Zach,” he says.

  “Cool! Do you play basketball? I like the Suns.”

  “I do not play basketball, no.”

  “How come?”

  “I avoid sweating as a matter of course. That’s hard to do playing sports.”

  “Are you smart?” I say. “I bet you’re smart, you sound smart.”

  “I’m pretty bright, yes.”

  Now Zach is smiling for sure. “Awesome!” I say. “Are you a freshman? I kind of doubt it. You’re too tall.”

  “Junior. And I’m only six one.”

  “Ah,” I say. “So I won’t see you in English. Or the short-girls-only class. Or any other class, I take it.”

  “No,” Zach says. “I did try to get into that short-girl one, but it was full. Maybe next semester.”

  I laugh out loud. He’s fun! I like it when people are willing to play a little bit.

  “Since I’ve got you here, can you tell me where English is?” Then I sing a line from the Ramones song “Pinhead.” Zach adjusts his backpack like my voice is making it dig into his spine or something.

  “That’s me,” I say. “D-U-M-B. For, dumb. It’s the Ramones.” I point to my shirt as evidence. “It’s a song. ‘Pinhead’?”

  “You are fascinating.”

  I can’t tell if he says that because he likes the Ramones or just because I’m a nerd. I decide he likes the Ramones, because that thought makes me happy.

  “Sweet!” I say. “Fascinating is good, I’ll take fascinating.”

  “The English department is that way,” Zach says, like he’s amused.

  “Awesome! Thanks, Zach. See ya ’round!”

  He laughs as I move down the hallway, which I choose to take as a good sign. I decide that next time I run into him (literally), like just now, I’ll have something fascinating to say.

  Which reminds me, I still have a life to save! I get distracted too easily, Dad always says, and he’s right, because I’m always like, blah blah blah squirrel!

  I run farther down the hall to where it splits in three and look all around, searching for the trench-coat-buckles-n-studs kid, but I don’t see him anywhere.

  Dang it! Maybe he’s already been eaten by seniors.

  Sad face!

  DONTE

  I got the car yesterday, just in time for school. It’s older than I am, but to me it’s new. Spent this summer working two jobs, with short breaks for a free football combine in Los Angeles, then an NFTC in Oakland. Saved up money from the bit Mom’s able to dole out from her three jobs from time to time, and I finally got it.

  Red 1995 Honda Accord, 198,476 miles—about the most boring car ever produced on planet Earth, but it came with a Pioneer CD receiver and twin twelve-inch subwoofers. The system is only 150 watts RMS, and there’s no way to jack in my old phone, but it thumps good. It thumps great, for the price.

  And it’s mine.

  I drive it to pick up Amy, because I promised her I would when I got a car. But I turn my music down when I pull into the driveway because Amy’s parents probably wouldn’t care for the noise. Or rather, their neighbors wouldn’t, and I’m not about to get anyone in this neighborhood mad at me. Coaches and coordinators have seen me now. Things are going to start happening. Just need to find a college that’ll give me a full ride and I’m out. Maybe Amy will even come with me.

  “Damn,” I whisper. Got to stop dreaming. Keep my head in the game.

  Amy dashes out of the house and leaps in, squealing. Tha
t makes me smile big.

  “This is it!” she says. “You really got it!”

  “Hell yeah, I did.”

  “Nice. Happy senior year.” She swings her hair into place, and I smell coconut. “Now turn your music up!”

  I crank the volume.

  “You’re so lucky!” Amy shouts over the bass.

  “No way, it’s more than luck.” I worked hard for this car. Though finding a vehicle with a decent system, at the price I paid—that might’ve been luck, sure.

  This is going to be a great year.

  “We meeting up with Brady at school?” Amy shouts.

  Damn. Not what I want to hear. She should be focused on being in the car with me, not worried about Brady Culliver. B is my best friend, but he’s not what I want to be talking about right now. Damn.

  “Probably. Don’t know for sure. Never heard from him.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah. Most likely.”

  I decide to go all in now, man up, get it over with. I turn down the stereo. “So, hey, do you like … you got a thing for him? For Brady?”

  Amy laughs. I love how it sounds, even in this context. “Why, you jealous?”

  I wave it off, like I’m just messing around. I hope she’ll see through it. See that I’m not messing around at all.

  But it doesn’t matter. If I can’t have her—and I can’t—Brady sure can’t either. No way. Amy even confirms it when she says, “I can’t go out with any of you guys.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard something like that,” I say, squeezing the wheel tight for just a second.

  There’ll be other girls. Lots. None of them will be Amy, but. Me and Brady will have our pick this year.

  Except I don’t want lots of girls. I want Amy.

  But the pause in conversation makes me wonder: where is B, anyway? Haven’t heard from him since a couple days ago. Damn. I should check up on him. I turn right when I should go straight.

  “Where’re we going?” Amy says. “Oh my god, are you kidnapping me? Is this some senior prank thing?”